


i won't cry for you, i won't crucify the things you do

by Anonymous



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Catholicism, Drabble, Eventual Happy Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Conflict, Religious Guilt, but a long one, is that a tag i can use or no, regular homophobia too unfortunately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 10:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21053075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Saint Devota and Saint Denis on the rocky hills of Monte-Carlo.





	i won't cry for you, i won't crucify the things you do

**Author's Note:**

> ding ding coast is writing angst again! but really, could anyone have predicted id ever use catholicism as a tag?  
first of all: this is very, very long for a one shot. i got a little bit carried away.  
i was researching religion in europe, how catholicism has so much history there and i wanted to write about it. hence, this. it's long. it's not my best writing ever, not even close. but it's here anyway.  
i have SEVERAL disclaimers:  
please understand i in no way intend to ridicule any religion in any way by publishing this; all religions have good people and bad people as well as good traits and bad traits and just because this depicts the negative doesn't mean i think the beliefs described are characteristic of a whole.  
i really went in with creative liberties on the histories and backgrounds of characters here, so don'tbe surprised if its OOC by quite a lot. this was more of an experiment in concept and style for me than realism.  
this is a work of fiction- it is not meant to reflect or portray real life. this is not real, please do not base your opinions of real people on my piece of convoluted fiction.  
there is homophobia in this- the F slur is used explicitly once, thereafter the homophobia is mostly internalized. proceed with caution.  
as with all of my works, this is a work of fiction not to be published elsewhere without my consent. thank you!  
title is from "bloody mary" by lady gaga.

He doesn't remember the first time he heard the word God, doesn't remember the first Mass he ever attended. Rather, it felt like he was born into it, holding his mother's hand as she guides him to the front of the glistening cathedral, born into mumbling _Amen_ as if on cue. Really, his earliest recollection of religion is a blur of stained glass and crying women and grandmothers in pews crying out _Oh, lord!_ when the priest spoke in holy assertions.

_"...as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. "_

He's only five the first time he sees a gay couple. He's with his older brothers, out on a day trip of Paris, and he's the first one to spot the two men. They're stopped only a few blocks from the Notre Dame, held in one another's embrace, blissfully unaware of the prying child just a block down the path. Pierre watches with intent, eyes wide with an innocence that only a child can manage, and he sees the way they touch each other and connect their lips briefly, but chastely.

"_Mama_," he asks, voice sounding squeaky, "_que font-ils_?"

She glances over to where he's staring, her own eyes widening as she grabs Pierre's little hand in her own and leads them away, gentle but insistent.

"_Non, non, mon cher. Dieu n'aime pas ça._"

And he's only six but his mind is racing with the new information he's just gathered. Pierre didn't even know boys were allowed to kiss, much less that God didn't like it.

"_Pourquoi_?" he asks, little eyebrows furrowed with concern, but his mother doesn't answer, just tightens her lips into a thin smile and continues walking them in another direction. He can hear his older brother snort behind him, say a word that Pierre thinks is ugly even before he knows what it means, all hard Gs and Ts and vowels that sound out of place with his native French.

"_Faggot_."

".._.pray for us who have recourse to thee, and for those who do not have recourse to thee, especially the enemies of the Church and those recommended to thee."_

He's ten when he first meets Charles, eight years old, all ruffled hair and gangly limbs and enthusiasm for when they get to race their karts against each other. They practice their English with each other after races, giggling like crazy when Pierre learns all the curses and teaches them to Charles during a lamplit sleepover in the Leclercs' Monaco home.

Charles' attention span is less than stellar, however, when he groans and slams the book shut in front of him, dramatically laying back onto the massive pile of pillows in their makeshift sheet fort.

"_Pierre_," he whines, "_je ne veux pas étudier._"

"We have a test next week, Charles," Pierre manages, the English on his tongue sounding like sharp knives compared to the flowing French he's accustomed to, but he can't deny his younger friend when Charles grabs his hand and tugs him onto their massive stash of cushions, giggling like crazy when Pierre gives him a baffled look. Charles laces their fingers together and stares up at the ceiling of their fort.

"_On va être en F1, moi et toi,"_ he sighs, and Pierre squeezes Charles hand, "_Comme Senna et Prost."_

Pierre crinkles his nose up, looking slightly miffed. "_Ne se sont-ils pas détestés?"_ he asks incredulously, and Charles just shrugs. "_Je ne pourrais jamais te haïr."_

They stay like that for a while, fingers entwined, friendly silence filling the room before Charles speaks again.

"Yeah. _Je t'aime, Pierre,_" he mumbles, and Pierre flips over and grins at him.

"_Je t'aime, Charles_. I love you," he finishes, the English sounding only slightly less aggravated, but it seems to suffice for Charles, who gives him a sunny grin and pulls him in for a hug.

".._.and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."_

He's fourteen the first time he kisses a girl, an English lass from one of his classes named Katherine. She's got long blonde hair and pretty grey eyes, and she smells like vanilla, and Pierre knows something's wrong when she presses her soft pink lips to Pierre's own mouth and he feels nothing.

She recoils fairly quickly, obviously embarrassed and her face red when he doesn't even attempt to kiss back.

"I'm sorry," she says, rubbing her cheek awkwardly, "was it really that bad?"

"No, no!" Pierre backtracks quickly, his own mind racing. He's struggling to find the words in a language she'll understand, but she just continues to gaze at him sweetly.

"Y'know, I think you're pretty cute," she starts, "but there's something you haven't quite worked out, isn't there?"

"Katherine..." he begins, her name sounding weak on his tongue, "I-I didn't. Feel right," he states, broken English bringing him one meter closer to bursting into tears over the entire interaction.

"It's okay," she smiles, and Pierre pulls her petite frame into a hug. "But, maybe, Pierre, have you considered that you maybe, well, I dunno-" she stutters into his ear.

"Hm?" he hums, pulls back an arms width from her.

"Pierre, have you ever liked boys?"

And he doesn't want to answer the question because liking boys is a sin, begrudged in the eyes of God, a disease to be cured from his system.

"No!" he cries in disgust, but it feels like a lash of a whip against his own heart, "Never."

She gives him a sad smile and a gentle pat on the shoulder, looking like she understands far more than her own 14 years would let anyone believe.

"Okay, Pierre," she says simply, voice sounding tight, "I know you'll figure it out, then," she trails off, before giving him one more peck on the cheek and making her way out of the park, out of his life.

_Fuck_, he thinks, running a hand frantically through his own hair, his heart racing in his sinful ribs.

_"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death."_

It's Pierre's eighteenth birthday when Charles invites him to Monaco, gives him a mischievious grin and flashes a fake ID.

"Now I'm eighteen too!" he says excitedly, throws an arm around Pierre's neck. "Happy birthday _mon cherie_, let's celebrate!" Charles cries, dragging Pierre out of the flat and into the glitzy nightlife of Monte-Carlo. Pierre himself tries to ignore the warmth of his own face, the sparks igniting on the back of his neck where Charles's skin meets his own. It's normal, he's not in love, could never be in love with his best friend who happens to be a boy, could never betray God like that. It's the same lie he tells himself every night when he wakes up with his dick hard and the solid bodies of men on his mind. 

Charles has decided that since they've gone through all the trouble of getting him a fake, they're both going to get silly drunk and dance the night away, and he wastes no time downing a shot. Pierre's still deep within his own head when Charles shoves a glass full of something clear and strongly scented like hand sanitizer into Pierre's grasp.

"Come on," he says, smiling as if to encourage Pierre to join him, "Don't be a party pooper." Pierre stares at the shot glass apprehensively, quickly pops it up to his mouth and feels the burn go down his chest.

"That's it," Charles smiles devilishly, like he's not the younger of the two. Pierre forces a smile onto his own face, but it feels like a grimace.

They stand there for a moment, dumbly taking in each other's presence, and Pierre may have never admitted it before, but Charles is easily one of the most stunning people he's ever seen, hazel eyes like Romanesque stained glass and the sort of smile that radiates calm.

Charles tugs on his arm, pulls him away from the bar and onto the dance floor, and almost immediately after he lets go he loses Charles into the writhing mass of bodies, alone with his own sinful thoughts to haunt him again. It's easy to forget when he's dancing, when there's another body pressed up against his own- in the hedonistic world of Monaco, he's grateful for how easy it is to forget himself.

When he finally finds Charles again, the Monegasque looks properly tipsy, face flushed red, hands immediately grabbing for Pierre's own as he sways to some top-40 hit that's slowly blasting out their eardrums.

"Pierre!" Charles says loudly, as if he's somehow forgotten that he came here to celebrate Pierre's own birthday, "Are you having fun?"

"Yeah, of course," Pierre replies smoothly, but he wants to say _no, not really, I'd be happier if it was just us back home with FIFA and a pizza._

"You don't sound very convincing," Charles says, lowering his voice and scooting closer. "Did you find anyone pretty to dance with?" he asks, sliding his hands into Pierre's back pockets and ignoring the way the Frenchman tenses up.

Pierre's mortified, wants to scream and cry and run away from everything he's feeling all at once. It's everything he's ever hated about himself and everything he's ever wanted all wrapped up in one package and it feels like his chest is being constricted.

"Charles," he chokes out, putting his own hands on Charles shoulders and gently pushing him back, "I think we should go home." _I'm not gay,_ he wants to add, but the words won't come out. For all his other sins, he can't force himself to lie.

Charles immediately pulls back, his face dropping with shame and unreadable sadness. He seems to sober up incredibly quickly, looks down at the ground-

"Oh yeah, um, of course, it's your birthday after all."

It's a death march back to Charles flat, and Pierre thinks that in the near-decade he's known Charles, it's the first time they don't share a bed. Charles gives him a change of clothes and a hefty pile of blankets and tells Pierre that the couch is all his own, leaves Pierre with his own sorrows once again.

"_O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended You. I detest all my sins because of your just punishments, but most of all because they offend you..."_

They don't talk about it until Jules passing. Pierre is nineteen and preparing himself to take on the world in GP2 when the call comes from Monaco. Charles mom, he's surprised she even still has his number, but _Pierre he's not doing well at all I think you need to come home and talk to him and-_

He would be stupid to admit that he hasn't noticed the gaping chasm that seems ever-growing between himself and Charles. They don't talk about his birthday or anything else regarding their sweaty night in Monaco- mostly their conversations turn into small talk and friendly chatter. It breaks something in Pierre, makes him feel like a worthless friend, makes him wish he could just be better.

"Charles," he starts. They're on the coast of Monaco, a quiet overhang that Charles taught Pierre of on one of their many childhood holidays together, and when he thinks about it again, it's almost like his own throat is closing up.

"Pierre!" Charles chuckles humorlessly, "You can just talk to me, you know."

Pierre freezes, glances over at Charles sitting next to him. Charles's hair is swept askew by the wind, his eyes squinted against the reflection of the sun against the harbor. He looks tired, maybe in an existential way, the grief having taken some toll on his usual sunniness, and yet Pierre can't help but think that Charles belongs on the pages of a magazine. _God help me._

"The same goes for you," Pierre adds, looking back over the water himself. Charles gives him a critical look, draw his knees up to his chest and rests his head against them.

"Like you'd want me to talk to you," Charles rolls his eyes, "I think you've probably chosen to forget about..."

"Charles," Pierre says, voice sounding hurt, "I don't. I don't care if you're-. You're still my best friend."

"What, you can't even say gay?" Charles quips, "Good thing I'm bi, then." He kicks a rock off the ledge impatiently, listens as it tumbles down the slope and into the sea. The silence grows mightily between them, sucks all of the joy out of the atmosphere and leaves the air around them cold. Pierre just wants to go home.

"Charles..." he croaks again, throat feeling like sandpaper, because this is really happening. His entire life up until this point, knees scraping the cold floor of cathedrals and head bowed in silent devotion, and it's all coming undone on a ledge in Monaco.

"You won't be able to go to church every weekend when you start GP2," Charles says simply, and Pierre winces. _It's always like this, it's never like this._

"Can I ask you a question, Pierre?" Charles asks, his voice sounding dejected. _This is it,_ he thinks, _the end of the innocence._

"Toujours. Always."

"Well," Charles starts, timidly, "do you think it's fair?"

"Jules?" Pierre sucks in a breath, the grief flooding his lungs. _Of course it's not fair,_ he thinks. "He's with God now," he says instead.

"No," Charles says simply, and when Pierre finally looks at him, he sees the glittering tears on Charles porcelain face. He feels wetness below his own eyes, closes them only momentarily but when Charles speaks again he's almost yelling at Pierre.

"No, fucking no Pierre, it's not fucking fair! Stop bringing up your God bullshit! You're just repeating what your parents have told you! Fucking think for yourself for just once!" he yells, and watches with burning eyes as Pierre freezes and slowly turns to face him. 

"Do you think your God loves you when he kills the people you love? Do you think it's okay to pity people like me for living the truth? Do you think I'm going to hell, Pierre?"

Pierre feels like he's going to pass out, he can hardly breathe. Here is his best friend, desperately trying to break down everything Pierre has ever known- and it hurts because he knows, deep down, that Charles is right.

"I don't know Charles. I--" Pierre cuts off, buries his face in his own hands, "It's all I've ever known, it's the only thing I've always had. Please, please don't," he mumbles.

Charles gives him a look of complete sadness, rests a comforting hand on Pierre's shaking shoulders. They stay seated in silence for more than a moment, Saint Devote and Saint Denis on the rocky hills of Monte-Carlo.

"I love you," Charles said, his tongue tasting bitter, "and I always will. But there's an entire world out there to experience, and I'm not just going to let it pass me by because of something that might not even be true. Repitition isn't devotion. There's too much good in life to waste it all worrying about what happens after it's over."

"Yeah," Pierre breathes, and before he is completely aware of what he's doing, he's bowling Charles over, closing the gap between them, pressing their mouths into each other and tasting their salty tears. Charles tastes like cinammon and Pierre thinks its the moat comforting sensation he's ever experienced.

The bliss can only be had for so long- Pierre pulls away, looking absolutely mortified and ashamed of himself for more reasons than one. His head is pounding, aches in his temples and makes the edges of his vision fuzzy, and the same insecure part of it just barely manages to squeeze out one thought- _God forgive me._

"I am so sorry," he hiccups, recoiling from where Charles is still halfway leaning on the grass, but Charles just continues to stare at him with beautiful green tinged eyes. Pierre wishes he was anywhere but here.

"Why are you apologizing?" Charles asks, reaches out to grab Pierre's hand and relishes the moment when the latter doesn't pull away.

"Because I'm not supposed to, you don't want, I-" Pierre stammers, but Charles just shushes him impatiently.

"Shut up, Pierre. It's okay. I know you think it's not, but," he pauses, squeezes Pierre's fingers intertwined with his own, "it's alright. I'm here for you, when you're ready to figure it out. Always."

They stay like that, hands held tight, watching the burning streak of orange sunlight fade below the gentle lapping of the ocean on the horizon. Pierre feels ill, like he could lean over the edge of the outcropping and throw up until he's finally rid of the poison that seems to be running through his veins, but he doesn't. Charles words are the only salve for his aching form-

_It's okay. Always. When you're ready._

"._..that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided. "_

He doesn't truly consider himself and Charles again until Max comes into his life. 

He's twenty-two, just got his first full season F1 contract, and Max is two years his junior (_Just like Charles,_ Pierre thinks bitterly, the image of a red and white Alfa Romeo flying past him flashing across his brain), but Max seems to have twice the experience in everything they do. He's funny and outgoing when Pierre is not, makes sure that when they're all together, him and Pierre and Daniel and Brendon, that Pierre isn't talked over the whole time. They laugh about their past experiences, get mad about other teams, play FIFA together. Max is fiery and passionate Pierre finds it endearing, wishes he had half the guts to be as proud of himself as Max is.

Max's own nonchalant acceptance of their thing is at least soothing to Pierre- Max is, after all, from one of the most LGBT accepting countries in the world. To him, it's probably just as normal as being straight, he's probably never had to talk himself out of a panic attack on the shitty floors of a church bathroom, never had to hold back the tears every Sunday when the same old voice said that his love was worthless and wrong.

And they fuck, too- the first time is after Bahrain, after Pierre drags the Toro to a near podium finish despite all odds. Pierre tells Max it's his first time with a guy and Max touches him gently, says he's so proud, delicately tips him over the edge, and they laugh and moan and sigh together but Pierre can't help but feel like something is off when they lay on the bed in the hotel room afterwards, sheets sticky with each other's sweat, among other things. He's at least gotten past the part of his brain that screams about sin, has found new comfort in saying _Oh my God_ and not feeling guilty, but now his brain can't help but feel like the naked body next to his should be Charles, like he should be telling his hopes and dreams to the Monegasque with the largest share of his life and not his unlikely friend turned teammate turned fuck buddy.

Thankfully he doesn't have to feel guilt over that, too- he's long known he's Max's second choice, knows Max would do anything for Daniel and will come crying back when Daniel tells him that they can't, and Pierre will let himself be used again, but it feels like a rebellion, even if it breaks his heart. It's acceptance and self punishment in the same breath, hurting and healing his very soul all at once.

_"Give me only Thy love and Thy grace; with these I will be rich enough and will desire nothing more. Amen."_

He's 23 when it all comes crashing down on him.

Max tries to help him, tries to make him feel better, lacks both the finesse and superiority to keep Pierre from feeling like he's on the edge of succumbing to his own thoughts.

Max tells him first, far from the eyes of Helmut Marko and Christian Horner, and when Max is the one that tears up and pulls Pierre into a desperate hug, he doesn't know what to think anymore. The words _demotion_ and _pressure_ hang off the edge of his tongue like heavy weights. He doesn't react to Max's emotion, preferring to stay still and give the Dutchman a comforting pat on the back. He's always preferred to fall apart in silence.

It comes to a fever pitch when he's back in Bologna for his break, back within the realm of safety where he can suffer without judgement. He feels sick again; both mentally and physically, as it turns out, head pounding a cadence for his stomach to flip to, racing with thoughts of worthlessness and regret. He thinks back to the sacred act of fasting- and relives it in his own bastardized way.

Pierre is on his third day of not resting properly and not eating and just thinking, thinking, _thinking_ when a heavy knock lands on his front door.

_Great_, he thinks, knowing he looks an unkempt mess in a pair of stained joggers and a t shirt with faded graphic print, his hair practically matted onto the top of his head, but it doesn't matter much to him- whoever is knocking should know not to bother the grieving while they mourn.

The door clicks open under Pierre's hand, and he doesn't even invite the guest in before they're forcing the door shut behind them, dragging Pierre into the morning sunlight of the living room.

_Great_, he thinks once more, _I've probably just invited a murderer into my house._

"Pierre," a familiar voice finally says, and the aforementioned finally looks up. He could cry when he sees mousy hair and hazel eyes and the soft look on Charles face. 

"You look fucking terrible, ma moitié," he says, gently reaching for both of Pierre's hands, "Like you haven't slept or showered in days."

"I haven't," Pierre says simply, leans forward to rest his forehead on Charles shoulder. He's exhausted, just wants to sleep and forget about the hushed whispers of psychological issues and stress and mental strength he started hearing around the garage before the end, wants to forget the dejected voice of his race engineer in Hungary, wants to forget his entire year and just go back to Toro Rosso where things were simpler. _Surprise_, his mind produces, _you got your wish._

Charles sighs and wraps an arm around Pierre's head, holding him in place like a mother would a child. He thinks he should be tired of being the one to pick up Pierre's pieces, but he simply can't, isn't, never grows tired of any of his time with Pierre, both the bad and the good.

"Have you eaten anything?" Charles asks, but he knows the answer even before Pierre mumbles out a _"no"_ onto the fabric of his jacket. He sighs once more, feeling a bit like a mother caring for her petulant child, but nonetheless drags Pierre to the kitchen and shuffles through the cupboards. 

"Did you turn off your phone?" Charles muses once more, mindlessly digging through the cabinets looking for something filling for Pierre. He settles on oatmeal, figuring it's simple enough for his stomach to handle after seventy-two hour of not eating or sleeping.

"It died on the first day I got back here. Didn't plug it in," Pierre answers, barely picking up Charles appreciative hum before flopping down onto a barstool at the very perimeter of the kitchen. _You don't deserve this,_ he thinks to himself as he watches Charles carefully scoop oats into a bowl and put a kettle on the stove, _this is more than you've ever been worth._ Pierre shakes his head, wishing he could just turn off his own thoughts for five minutes, and slides his aching head into his hands.

"Why are you here, anyway? Shouldn't you be in Maranello this week?" he asks, voice sounding oddly accusative.

"Max called me and said I should come see you," Charles says, pouring water from the whistling kettle into the bowl, his voice sounding venomous when he says Max's name. "And I wanted to check on you anyway. Maranello's not that far from here, and Ferrari always has another driver they can film. I only have one best friend."

"I'm still your best friend?" Pierre can hear himself ask incredulously, and Charles turns to stare at him.

"Yes. Of course. Why wouldn't you be?"

"Well, we're on different teams and everything..." Pierre trails off, "and I've been kind of a shitty friend for the past few years."

"Who cares about the teams?" Charles puts the bowl of oats in front of Pierre's face and slaps a spoon down, dragging a stool across the tile to sit across from him. "Eat. Also, maybe you have been a shitty friend, but...things happen. When we were kids and I said always, I meant it."

The words feel like a knife to Pierre's heart. _Always_. Charles has always been there for him, even when he couldn't be there to support Charles, and here he is now in Pierre's apartment making sure he doesn't succumb to his own grief. He takes a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, feels the warmth on his tongue and swallows, imagining the line that the warm food is tracing down his esophagus.

"I really love you," he says suddenly, dropping his spoon back into the bowl with a clang, and Charles looks up to give him a sad smile.

"Of course, Pierre. You always say that. I love you too. I know," Charles mutters, voice sounding flat. It breaks Pierre's heart that he's brought Charles to his knees with his own stupid insecurities time and time again.

"No, this time I mean it," he says emphatically, reaches up and grabs Charles face and plants a chaste kiss on his lips, both hovering there for a second before Charles is the one to pull away. 

"_Cherie_, you've gotta stop doing this," Charles whispers, "it's not going to make you feel better. You don't mean it like that. You never do."

Pierre feels his chest burn. He hates himself. _You should_ a familiar voice says in the back of his head.

"Charles..." he breathes, his voice cracking. He's cried in front of Charles before, many times, actually, but this feels like he's ripping his heart out for Charles to watch beat itself away. 

"...I really do this time," he practically mouths, and his head is spinning again. 

Charles doesn't say anything, just pushes the bowl of oatmeal back towards Pierre in an encouraging way. Pierre takes one look at it and all his appetite is gone once more. He reaches out for Charles hand over the table, squeezes it and feels only marginally better.

"You told me you'd be there when I was ready," he sighs, and Charles head snaps up. "Three years ago. I haven't forgotten, Charles."

"Pierre..." Charles mumbles, hangs his head.

"I'm ready now, Charles. I'm not, I'm not-" Pierre struggles, his breaths coming just a bit too fast, "I love you and I'm in love with you and I accept it."

"I am not taking advantage of you like this, when you're unwell and hurting," Charles begins, bringing his free hand up to pinch his nose, "I can't do that to you. I can't even do that to me."

"Then please, tell me how to prove it," Pierre begs, which catches Charles completely off guard, "I missed you so much and I let my own head get between us. I want nothing more than you in every fucking part of my life, Charles, why don't you understand?"

"Pierre," Charles says, voice measured and composed even though his own heart is racing, "I think we should talk about this when you feel better. Do you feel well right now?"

"No," Pierre admits, "but- Please, can we give it a chance?"

"I," Charles stops, inhales deeply and pauses to think of what he wants to say, "I want you to take care of you first, and talk about why you're doing this to yourself. And then maybe..."

"Okay," Pierre breathes, "okay. I understand. I still love you, Charles."

"Yeah," Charles smiles, "I still love you too. _Plus que tu ne sais."_

Charles pushes the oatmeal back towards Pierre once more, relentless in his efforts to get the older man in a better state.

"Please eat," he says carefully, "and then we can go upstairs and take a nap, yeah? I'm fucking jetlagged."

"Yeah," Pierre says softly, echoing Charles earlier statement, gently picking at the food with the spoon. He doesn't have much of an appetite, but he's finally decided that this time, he'll do anything for Charles.

He takes a shower afterwards, enjoying the feeling of washing three days of his own sorrows off his skin and finally defeating the tangles of his hair. He avoids the mirror- doesn't need it to tell him that he still looks exhausted- but when he gets back into his own bedroom, Charles is happily curled up under the comforter, hand resting on the TV remote, eyes closed and snoring very softly.

And this time, Pierre is ready to share the bed again.

_"I forgive all who have injured me, and I ask pardon for all whom I have injured."_

Pierre is twenty-five, and life is finally going right.

He's in Brazil, has just finished a respectable P4, and _oh yeah_\- Charles has clinched his first world championship.

Pierre parks the car in parc ferme, hopping out and tearing his helmet and HANS off as quickly as he possibly can. Alex gives him a smack on the back and a "Great job man!" as he passes by, but Pierre mostly ignores his teammate- he only has one thing on his mind, and that one thing is gracefully crawling from underneath a bright red halo.

Max doesn't congratulate Charles, doesn't even stick around after he finishes his brief interview, and Pierre can picture him storming off into the cooldown room- the mental image makes him snort. Max has always been one for the theatrics. George sticks around though, congratulates Pierre on a hard and fair fight, and Pierre agrees- he thinks with a couple more laps he could've gotten past Max and George's silver arrows, but P4 is good enough for him for now.

He's halfway through a sentence when Charles pulls his helmet off and looks around frantically- Pierre excuses himself quickly, ignores the suggestive look George gives him and shoves the Brit gently in the chest before he beelines for his Charles.

"Pierre!" Charles calls excitedly, and Pierre thinks if this were a movie, they'd be jumping into each others arms- but this is reality and they're in public, and Pierre isn't really comfortable with being out to the entire world yet. Instead they pull each other into a friendly hug, both filled to the brim with barely contained joy. Charles looks like he could light up the night sky with his radiance.

They pull back, Pierre keeping his own hands on Charles upper arms, smiling at each other that speaks louder than words.

"I am so proud of you," Pierre says earnestly, feels himself fill with warmth when Charles beams at him, "you did amazing, _champion_."

"I-" Charles says, but he's cut off by Pierre's lips on his own. _Fuck it, life's too short_ the Frenchman thinks, echoing the words Charles once said on the coast of Monaco, cupping Charles face with one hand and dragging him closer with the other. The crowd around them is screaming, pressing up against the barriers and absolutely losing it, but the two of them can barely hear the world around them.

"Wow," Charles manages when Pierre pulls away. He breathes in the smell of racing fuel and sweat and realizes that this is everything he's ever dreamed of finally coming true. Pierre laughs softly, tucks his chin over Charles shoulder and embraces him tightly once more. 

"Thank God," Charles laughs, planting a peck on Pierre's cheek, which sends the crowd into frenzy once more, "I was getting kinda tired of waiting until you were ready this time."

"No," Pierre says genuinely, his own smile matching Charles in intensity, "Not thank God. Thank _you_."

**Author's Note:**

> some French translations via Google Translate:  
que font-ils = what are they doing  
Dieu n'aime pas ça = god doesn't like that  
Je ne veux pas étudier = i do not want to study  
On va être en F1, moi et toi, Comme Senna et Prost = we are gonna be in F1, me and you, like Senna and Prost  
Ne se sont-ils pas détestés? Je ne pourrais jamais te haïr = didn't they hate each other? i could never hate you  
Plus que tu ne sais = more than you could ever know  
the rest seems like either terms of endearment or self explanatory/mentioned in english.
> 
> this is a long mess of pacing and half assed plot and word vomit, so thank you in advance for reading this far.


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